


A Mere Consonant, A Mere Vowel

by R_Quarion



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Complexities of Love, Conflicted Bekowsky, Critical Self Analysis, Fluff, Gentlemen Kissing, He loves the Golden Boy, Heartache, Implied Sexual Content, Longing, M/M, soft content, whats a gopher, who wouldnt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25483141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Quarion/pseuds/R_Quarion
Summary: The word belonging was only one consonant and one vowel separate from the word longing.Stefan is feeling both, in the strangest of ways at the strangest of times.Damned the Golden Boy.
Relationships: Stefan Bekowsky & Cole Phelps, Stefan Bekowsky/Cole Phelps
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	A Mere Consonant, A Mere Vowel

The word  _ belonging _ was only one consonant and one vowel separate from the word  _ longing _ . 

So why, for the love of God, did Bekowsky feel as if the terms were worlds apart? It was tearing him up inside, that Phelps was able to make him feel both at once. Stefan had been in the LAPD long before Cole. He'd struggled with gaining commendations or respect, finding a way to make a name for himself was as if he was trying to write the letters in a pen that had long since run out of ink. Empty, dry, worthless. 

There was wonder there, deep beneath the bickering of his own internal monologue, that asked where the belonging started. Was it when Cole was assigned to him? Was that the hallmark of a good detective? Personable, respectable, not an institution nor a social basket case. But then begged the question that Stefan hated. To what did the longing belong to?

Was it a longing to be  _ like  _ Phelps? 

Relentlessly praised and endlessly worshiped. To have people on the street recognise you for your work, to have it all be said for you. For newspapers to praise your name and commend you for the people put behind bars. Stefan wondered if maybe that was the longing. To disregard his own, empty pen in place of the ink of the newspapers. To shine in headlines. Maybe, perhaps, but it wasn’t that simple. Things never were.

Was it longing to be  _ close  _ to Phelps? 

Selective memory cast out the incident where Stefan had reached out to grab something from the table but his hand missed and landed on Cole's thigh. The way the man smiled at him, as if in acceptance of an apology. 

Selective memory ignored the moment where he had rounded the corner of the squad room only to run right into Cole. Coffee stains sinking into an immaculate shirt, the yelp as the boiling water scorched him. But it was Cole’s outreaching hand, the way it trailed down Stefan’s chest as he tried to reverse the irreversible. 

Selective memory frankly forgot the time he answered the door to Cole without his shirt buttoned up all the way. Half his chest exposed to the draft of the apartment building as he opened the door to see his colleague. Cole had looked him up and down with a small smile and asked if Stefan had company. Shaking his head, he had thought  _ no, because I can’t have you _ . There it was. The longing.

Oh how prevalent Stefan's longing became when he would see Cole on the backs of his eyelids during the night. Thoughts rushing, washing over him, telling him to just long for the Golden Boy. So he did. He let his hand do the thinking for the night, he let his palm console himself, he let his fingers wrap around himself in a way that he could never wrap his mind around his feelings. 

Two letters. One consonant. One vowel. Where Stefan's belonging slowly delved into longing.  He longed, and after their first time together, felt as if he belonged.  To feel both at once, in such different ways. 

Their first time, Stefan could have sworn he had willed it into existence. It was surreal, Cole unbuttoning Stefan’s shirt. Soft whispers. Gentle touches. The moonlight dipped in and out as clouds passed over. Stefan had candles dancing in the draft. He hadn’t expected Cole, no, the candles had been for himself. He’d meant for the night to be a quiet one in, just his thoughts and whiskey. The knock at the door had been the last thing he expected.

Well. Not the  _ last _ thing.

The last thing he had expected was Cole to walk in slowly, no words said, sliding his jacket from his shoulders. Outreaching his hands to undo Stefan’s tie, to move back to his shirt, all slow and calculated. Everything  _ was _ with Phelps, no doubt about it. Stefan considered himself submerged in all that the other man had to offer. His company, his mind, and if he left him; Stefan longed for a place of belonging in Cole’s heart.

Two letters. One consonant. One vowel. Longing. Belonging.    
And all of the beautiful complexities that came along with them.

**Author's Note:**

> imma just keep writing this content bc why not


End file.
